Dreams of Faith
by Ashley A
Summary: Post movie. Sometimes things don't end up the way they should. For the symbology 101 fic challenge at KA fanfic.


Dreams of Faith

Author: Ashley

Rated: PG

Summary: Things change, but not always for the better. Post movie.

Disclaimer: movie versions. All film dialogue belongs to David Franzoni.

For the Symbology 101 challenge at KA fanfiction.

Pairings: Arthur/Guinevere

Arthur fingered the small gold object in his hand, and closed his eyes. The soft feel of the metal against his callouses had a calming effect on him, and he prayed quietly, not hearing the echoing footsteps behind him on the stone floor.

"Why do you always talk to God and not to me?"

Arthur opened his eyes, but didn't turn his head. The strong smell of myhrr filled his senses, and he smiled.

"My faith is what protects me, Lancelot. Why do you challenge this?"

The other man circled around behind him. Arthur felt rather than saw him sit down on one of the hard benches that filled the chapel.

"I don't like anything that puts a man on his knees."

Arthur looked at the cross in his hand, and it was larger than he remembered. He hissed, and blood flowed from a cut in his palm.

A tchting noise came from Lancelot. "Careful, friend. Those things can be sharp. I should know."

Arthur turned to face him, and things slowed. The smoke drifting from the incense seperated into individual dots, and the tiny flickering candles on the altar became stars.

The arrow bolt that protruded from Lancelot's chest was small and inconsequential, but it seemed to be the only thing Arthur could focus on. His fingers convulsed around the icon in his hand, and blood dripped onto the floor, joining that of Lancelot's.

"Why did you leave me, Arthur?" Lancelot asked, shaking his head. "I would have died for you. Oh, wait," he looked down at the arrow, "I did, didn't I? And only now you allow our blood to become one." He dipped his boot into the sticky redness on the floor, which was rapidly becoming a pool.

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, anything, to make Lancelot understand. Arthur had had nothing left. Pelagius was gone. Arthur's family was disbanding. All the years of fighting, of defending an empire that was as rotten as Arthur's own soul felt forced him to make a quick decision, one that would make him able to reconcile his actions with his ideals. He had to stay. Guinevere needed him. He needed someone to need him.

"_I_ needed you. And I wasn't enough."

"I didn't know!" Arthur's hand was beginning to throb, the small gold cross now the size and weight of a brick.

"You should have," Lancelot said, scornfully, and stood, turning his back on Arthur. "Too late now."

He walked away, and Arthur tried to follow him, crying out his friend's name in horror. His left foot slipped out from under him, and he crashed to his knees, wallowing in the mingled blood of his knights.

Arthur jerked awake, his eyes burning, his fingers curled tightly around something.

He sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face, and glanced at the sleeping form next to him. Guinevere dozed solidly, and he allowed a brief crooked smile to cross his face. He would never admit to it not reaching his eyes.

Moving to the window, he sat, and pushed open the heavy leaded glass.

When the moon shone down on him, he dared to open his hand, and stare at the contents.

The little, simple gold cross stared back at him, and he felt a taste in the back of his throat like metal; brittle, cold, and sour.

He closed his hand, and his eyes, leaning to the side, resting his shoulder against the brick.

Five nights with the same dream.

Only one solution.

Without opening his eyes, he lifted his hand, and let the piece of jewelry (for that is what it was to him now) drop out of the very high window, and out of his life.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, a little voice gasped in horror at what he had done, but the larger voice, the one that had lost too many friends, and had seen too much, closed the door on the smaller one.

The wind blew, the stars twinkled, and outwardly everything was as it had been, but for one newly crowned king of Britain, nothing would ever be the same.

End.


End file.
